


Unravelling Aymeric

by skaralding



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Catboys & Catgirls, Come Inflation, F/M, Ishgard Restoration (Final Fantasy XIV), Light BDSM, Non-Human Genitalia, Oral Sex, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Player Characters, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Size Kink, Tentacle Dick, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23898337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skaralding/pseuds/skaralding
Summary: “Do you have any idea what you’re trying to do, touching me there?”“I have some idea, yes.” Somehow, you don’t expect that is how he admits it, without a smile, without anything but those slow, certain words. “I long to fuck you.”
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Player Character, Aymeric de Borel/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 90





	Unravelling Aymeric

**Author's Note:**

> Aymeric/fem!catgirl!warrior of light. No names for the player character throughout cos that's how I'm rolling. 
> 
> It's set at the end of Shadowbringers and after the first Ishgardian Restoration patch, and there are mild spoilers for events, but the story is, heh heh, not at all the main point. 
> 
> Re: the non-human genitalia tag, I've decided that Elezen have weird ridgy retractable dicks because why not, and Ishgardian Elezen in particular also have longer than normal tongues and excessive fluid production because blah blah dragon eye consumption. Enjoy, and tell me what you thought ;D

It’s a bad, bad idea to spend anything longer than a few moments in Ishgard. You do so anyway, because the restoration is important enough that other concerns can wait for a little while. The ever-present worry about how things may easily be going off track back on the First dogs your heels, but you rush about lending a helping hand all the same, churning out sheets and overalls by the bundle.

It’s when you trudge back to the inn for the night (not _home_ , really, but the closest thing a rootless adventurer like you can name to it) that it all goes wrong. You notice the respectful hush as soon as you stumble in through the upstairs entrance; the Forgotten Knight is many things of an evening, but never quiet.

You frown. All you want right now is to have the innkeep wave you up to your room. Your hands are still stiff from all the weaving and stitching you’ve done today, and you stink of the pungent tea that is the only working stimulant the food stalls in the Firmament have on offer. If you have to deal with any kind of crisis right now, it is probably going to get cleaved through the heart with your axe.

Then: “Lord Commander, your beer,” a familiar voice says, a note of grudging respect lightening his usual, gruff tone. “Apologies if it ain’t to your taste; we’re used to having a bit more notice when your sort swing by here.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfectly fine, Gibrillont,” is the smooth, warm answer. “I much doubt that it’s changed since my days as a squire. Gods know I swilled more than my own weight in the stuff on the worst days.”

“So you did,” Gibrillont says, and though his tone makes him sound as if he’s smiling, there’s a disbelieving edge to it. Whether Gibrillont is expressing disbelief in the idea that Ser Aymeric de Borel, the vaunted Lord Commander of the Temple Knights (and now Speaker of the House of Lords) had truly been the next best thing to a drunkard in earlier days, or simply expressing disbelief at the thought of Ser Aymeric’s longer than usual presence in the inn is unclear.

The last thing you want is to have to walk downstairs and find out. You force yourself forward all the same, because Aymeric is a friend, and a tactful friend at that. He would not be exchanging slightly-too-warm pleasantries with Gibrillont and smothering the usual rowdy ambience of the Forgotten Knight with his very presence if he was there to be the bearer of grim news.

You pause on the middle step, already able to see the straight, steel-clad back of one of Aymeric’s escorts. You take a deep, steadying breath, and force yourself forward again, a small, polite smile in place. “Lord Commander, what a pleasant surprise…”

* * *

No one that eavesdropped on your conversation with Aymeric in the inn would ever be able to tell how deeply you used to dislike him. You don’t tend to like anyone all that much, it’s true; you’re the sort to laugh and smile and nod your head in order to smooth things over and finish things quickly, rather than out of any kind of pleasure in the company of others. Politeness and a willingness to help does not mean the bestowal of undying friendship on those so helped. It’s shocked you before, the things people have done for you on such mistaken assumptions, the hopes they’ve misplaced, the wounds they’ve taken.

Ser Aymeric, though, struck you from the very first as the type of man to smile much and assume absolutely nothing. Like you—too much like you—except with a low, lovely voice, dashing good looks and a gilding of superiority that grated as much as it attracted. You learned to respect him despite all that, despite knowing at a glance just how much those dark blue robes must have cost.

It came as a shock to you when his increasingly warm attitude towards you took a decidedly flirtatious turn. You still remember the long, strange dinner you had with him, one that made you wonder if wearing what you though to be an appropriately formal Ishgardian dress had been the wrong idea. As a Miqo’te, you’ve always been sensitive to nuances like that, careful to draw a decisive line between formalwear, scandalous but still arguably formal wear, and the sort of racy attire meant for pulling a feckless partner in a pub the night before a dangerous dungeon run.

Men and women of all races are always, always, _always_ ready to assume a Miqo’te is showing a certain kind of interest in them, regardless of what you’re wearing. You hardly knew whether to feel glad or chagrined at the eventual, unceremonious end to that dinner.

Ever since then, Aymeric has been a little… different around you. Before your precarious trip to Norvrandt, you distinctly remember telling yourself that things couldn’t go on this way, that you had to address it.

You really, really wish you’d had the time to do so before now. You doubt this would be as horribly awkward as it is, staggering step by step towards your room with the lowly humming, definitely drunken weight of the Lord Commander slung over your shoulder. Or, rather, considering the difference in your heights, slumped forward over your shoulder, and making what feels like every attempt to bump into the walls and drum on them with his fingers as you struggle to get him to your room.

(You are quite sure Gibrillont’s spite for his reduced business tonight is to blame for his bland insistence that there really were no other rooms available for Aymeric’s use.)

The Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly being locked and barred to all comers at this hour forced your hand, as did the fixed, pleading gazes of Aymeric’s escorts.

(“You don’t know what he’s like when he’s like this, ma’am. We draw lots _not_ to escort him when he drinks; I’ve been damned unlucky this week, as you can see.”)

“…and a rose, is a rose, as my rose is the flower flourishing,” Aymeric sings, his voice so close to your ear that it takes a monumental effort not to flick it at his face to get him to shut up. It’s not that he’s a bad singer—he’s almost _too_ good at it, damn him, even drunken as he is. It’s that something about his low rich voice feels targeted, aimed at you in a way that you’re fairly sure you’re just imagining.

Then, as you wrestle open your door, Aymeric shifts against you, and one long arm of his slips down over your front. You ignore it, focused on shouldering the door open. Somehow, that means his arm is briefly trapped between your body and the door; annoying, to be sure, but nothing that cannot be borne.

Then that arm moves, and suddenly his fingers are carding gently through your short hair, seeking out your left ear and stroking it.

Things degenerate from there. The initial touch could be explained away as a drunken mistake, a slight, forgiveable trespass of the boundaries between friends. But no matter how carefully you guide his hands away, they keep returning.

It’s just your hair at first, and your ears. Then, when you lay him onto your slightly too short bed, he loops an arm around your waist that has to be slowly, firmly pried off.

Removing his boots for him almost gets you kicked in the face. “So sorry,” Aymeric mumbles, and as compensation, he struggles to sit up and take over the task from you, and you don’t know what’s more infuriating, the fact that he makes it look easy ( _after_ all your hard work unlacing the damned things, of course), the fact that his silken socks are a much higher quality than you can ever dream of affording, or the fact that his feet smell, but something about their unsurprising musk actually strikes you as _good_.

Then, while you’re staring fixedly over at his wiggling feet, wondering if it’s at all sensible to hate a man a little just because his stinky feet smell better than yours ever could, Aymeric smiles at you.

“Don’t,” you say, without quite knowing what you’re warning him against, but the hand he hooks through your belt catches you by surprise all the same. You find yourself face down on the bed beside him, his hand still wound around your belt, his weight half on top of you, heavy and constraining in a way that feels frighteningly good. “What in all fuck—”

“I am endeavouring to come to your aid, my friend,” he says, very seriously, even as his other hand sneaks in under your front. “You can’t mean to wear this much to sleep, can you?”

You don’t think he’s _trying_ to fondle you. He’s having enough difficulty undoing the buttons on your jerkin and your now slightly sweaty undershirt that you can’t help but remember that he downed four sizeable pints of Gibrillont’s strongest beer, and then swigged two strongly-smelling glasses of spirits while you boggled in shock.

“There,” Aymeric murmurs, when the third and last button of your jerkin finally comes undone. “Much better.”

“You—!” You grit your teeth, struggling to decide whether it’s even worth mentioning the fact that two out of those three buttons ended up halfway across the room from his misapplied strength. The fact that he’s already shifting his weight off you is in his favour; the fact that his large, hot hand strokes a seductive line down your back as he does so is decidedly not. “Keep your damned hands to yourself, will you?”

“Oh,” he says, sounding surprised. “Sorry.” And then his hand comes to a stop right above the initial curve of your ass, hovering there, it heat making your tail twitch despite your every effort to keep still. “May I?”

You don’t know if you want to touch him right now, but you can’t help but reach back and take iron hold of his wrist, forcing his offending hand well away. Just doing that is a bad idea; he’d stripped off his gauntlets before he set to drinking downstairs, so you’re touching his warm, slightly scarred skin directly. You wonder, suddenly, stupidly, whether licking him there will taste like salt and skin, or if he spilled enough beer on his hands that you’ll be able to taste that instead.

“I know how… how unforgivably rude I am, at present,” he says, quietly. “I apologize.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re trying to do, touching me there?”

“I have some idea, yes.” Somehow, you don’t expect that is how he admits it, without a smile, without anything but those slow, certain words. “I long to fuck you.”

You weren’t expecting that either. That, or the way he says it, the way ‘long’ and ‘fuck’ drip off his tongue, deeply meant.

“I am gathering, from your lack of response, that you would prefer not to indulge,” Aymeric says, some moments later. “Am I correct?”

 _“Yes,”_ you should say. _“Exactly.”_ But a nervous twitch of your tail has brought it up just high enough to brush against his hand, and his fingers are already dragging through the fluffy fur surrounding it. You cannot help but tighten inside, can barely keep from squirming. “This,” you find yourself saying, your voice lower than it should be, “this isn’t—”

“Shall I stop?” His hand has already gone carefully still. The heat of his fingers feels shockingly good. You wonder how it would feel if he stroked his hand further up, up and up until he can fondle the sensitive base and dig his fingers into your cleft. “Hmm?”

You know how he sounds when he’s smiling. This isn’t that; Aymeric sounds utterly serious, much as if he’s proposing some drastic new measure to the Alliance, rather than proposing… this.

Your first, unfinished response would have been how unwise it would be to involve yourself with someone like him when present circumstances mean it might be difficult to continue seeing each other. Suddenly, you can’t understand why that should be an obstacle, should be allowed to be.

You want him, after all. Surely you can just…

“How will this work?” You’re not sure your tone should be so cool, so unyielding. It is a poor fit for how you are guiding his hand to stroke up your tail, but you cannot help yourself. Since you are going to be unwise enough to take him, it feels best to hurry, to devour him before he can change his mind. “You’ll wait around, I assume, and come to me whenever I care to spare you a moment?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, his tone still terribly serious, his gaze alight. “That sounds precisely to my taste.”

You lose your head a bit, then. When your mouths crash together, you are the one who bites. You try to be careful with Aymeric’s robes, but there are one or two unavoidable rips, and when you growl an apology, his breathless suggestion that you tear it all the rest of the way off very nearly incites you to do just that, before remembering just who and where you both are. “Lord, no,” you find yourself snarling, as you struggle with the fastenings. “Do you know how much this stuff is worth?”

Aymeric licks his lips. “I don’t,” he says, flatly, not quite looking you in the eye. Pale as he is, he’s not got the sort of complexion that shows a flush, but you can almost feel the weight of his embarrassment. “If… if you’d enlighten me, my lady?”

Well.

Silence falls between the two of you. The magnitude of that lie of his isn’t just shocking in and of itself; you’ve heard him twist the truth before, but never so blatantly, so _clumsily_. And there was that ‘my lady’ at the end, when he of all people should know how little you care for such veneration. Just what on earth is he—

“Ahem.” Aymeric is still avoiding your confused gaze. “Could we… might we, ah, begin again?”

“Should we?” you cannot help but say. You remember, with a sinking feeling, that he is quite drunk. You’d like to believe that even in that state, he wouldn’t confuse you with someone else, someone who he’d very naturally call ‘my lady’, but you’d rather make sure. “What I mean to say is I’d rather we were on the same page. Of the same mind, in this.”

“We are.” Aymeric seeks to meet your gaze when he says that, but now you look away, discomfited at the thought of what you are about to ask. “So…”

“You did mean _me_ , when you said ‘my lady’?”

Aymeric’s spine stiffens immediately, taking him out of the former half-sitting, half-slumping posture he was in beside you. “Yes, of course. Why would…?” As he looks at you, his voice trails off into nothing. “Oh. Right.”

The awkward silence from earlier returns with a vengeance. Something about Aymeric’s acute stillness, which screams to you of deep embarrassment, finally combines with that unwarranted ‘my lady’ and blossoms into an intriguing, shocking idea. There’s a certain sort of man that revels in having a nice strong woman toy with him, and though Aymeric has never struck you as that sort, it isn’t as if it’s impossible that he could be.

You find yourself flushing, hating that _you_ may not hide your own surge of embarrassment at least as well as he does. Hating that his careful sideways glances have already let him register the slight darkening of the skin on your face. You don’t know why it feels so wrong to put what you’re thinking to words, when he could so easily admit to wanting to fuck you. “Were you… do you want me to be… to, y’know, hit you? Order you about?”

“If you’d like to, yes,” is his low, cautious answer.

Silence descends between the two of you again, a strangely charged one full of darting glances and nervous shifts. You’re not lacking in experience with what you proposed, but you don’t know quite how to begin, especially with such an awkward, inauspicious lead-in to things. You dearly wish you’d found time, somehow, to acquaint yourself with local mores and expectations on the subject; you cannot help but imagine that Aymeric is used to a much more elevated, complex framework for interaction than you are.

Naturally, your increasing uncertainty has not escaped him. Assuming, perhaps, that his chance with you is dwindling, Aymeric leans in a little, smiling ruefully. “My friend, please may we just,” and he waves his hand at nothing at all, “gloss over it, and begin differently?”

“No.” You think you have a point of entry now. A beginning. “Not when you’ll try to start—that—with such a blistering lie.” The way that last phrase makes Aymeric flinch is deeply satisfying, though counterproductive. You want him on edge and expectant, not defeated. “Just how long have I known you? How would you ever expect me to believe that you don’t know to the penny how much this infernal frippery costs?” That gets him to look at you again, has him realizing, hopefully, what you’ve meant by your little rant. You have a sudden urge to widen the small rip at the left shoulder of his outer robe; you suppress it. It’s much better to see him go tellingly still when you reach out and slide it the rest of the way off. “Well?”

“I…” Aymeric swallows as your fingers begin to unbutton his undershirt. Unlike yours, it is made of such fine, smooth cotton that your callouses snag on the cloth. “I apologize.”

Gods, the rush it gives you, hearing those words from him in that low, husky tone. You think you have him pegged now. The quiet apology. The air of obvious expectation. The careful, roundabout manner of requesting a bit of naughty, filthy pretence to further spice up your encounter. You’d bet a fistful of gil that Aymeric will enjoy being flayed with words as well as actions. That he is desperate for it.

Still, the initial lie he told merits some punishment. You prefer straightforward requests while engaging in this sort of thing; it’s terribly awkward having to read a new partner’s mind and poke and prod at them until they coyly reveal what they want. So poor Aymeric will need to suffer a bit, to learn to do better.

Usually you would begin said suffering with a calculated, vicious grip on your partner’s hair. But the moment your fingers sink into his loose, slightly sweaty curls, you’re not at all sure you can bear to pull on it. It’s so _soft_. Silky, in a way your hair will never be. There’s an easy dig in that, a low, sneering comment you could make about how such lovely hair would better suit a whore, but you can’t quite make the words form either.

You don’t know exactly what Aymeric likes, after all. And much as you loathe yourself for it in this moment, you feel a bone-deep craving to get it right, to impress him.

(To make sure he comes back for more.)

“What was your objective, when you told me that lie?” you ask, instead of trying to strike on the perfect insult. “You knew I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Yes.” Confident as Aymeric sounds, he’s avoiding meeting your eye again, dipping his head in a graceful nod that he doesn’t quite straighten up from, at least until you slide your hand from his hair to under his chin. “I assumed—”

“Ssh.” One of the things you like best about playing this sort of game is just how much control you have, and just how many little ways you have of showing it. He clearly wasn’t expecting to be kissed just now; you had to pull him into it. His mouth opens to yours readily enough, though. Greedily.

For a moment, the wet, slick sounds of your kiss are all you can hear. That, and his ragged breathing, as if you’re doing much more than simply holding him still with a firm grip on his shoulder while you ravage his mouth.

You tighten your grip on his shoulder when you pull away. It’s only just enough to keep him from being able to claim your mouth again; annoyed, you force him to lie back down on the bed with a hard, pointed shove. That makes him groan, and makes you much less self-conscious about the fact that to kiss him comfortably while straddling him, you’ll have to position yourself over his belly rather than his groin.

You want another kiss, so you take it. Aymeric still tastes of beer—unsurprising, considering how drunk he is—but you’re starting to pick up on what else lies beneath that. It feels strange to know the Lord Commander is a man like any other, that sweats and shudders and tastes of the food and drink he’s recently eaten. You nip at his tongue, unable to help yourself, then suck on it, emboldened by his eager moan.

And then you pull away again and say, near his twitching right ear: “I asked you a question.”

“I… I don’t…”

You’re not surprised that there’s a purring undertone to your low, mean laugh. “Don’t even bother pretending you could possibly forget,” you murmur. “Not while I’m still being nice.”

He shivers. Gulps. And then says, in a low, almost petulant tone: “Fine. I remember.” His head turns further away from you, as if that extra inch of distance between his right ear and your mouth will keep him safe. “I suppose I wanted you to scold me, for…”

“Lying?”

“For being out of touch,” Aymeric says, coolly, as if this were an entirely normal conversation. As if his entire frame isn’t still thrumming with poorly hidden tension as you slowly sit up on top of him. “Is that enough?”

“Are you _trying_ to get me to slap you?” You’re not sure if the way his right ear twitches again signals any interest in that. You are sure that he is challenging you, that final question combining with his slightly bored expression to all but scream one. Unfortunately for him, he’s already revealed just enough to keep you one step ahead of him. “Sadly, I’m not really one for slaps.” You lean back in over him, curling your fingers into his hair again, forcing him to keep his head still. “I much prefer bites.”

Elezen ears are sensitive in a different way than Miqo’te ears, and the degree of sensitivity naturally varies from person to person. Aymeric moved his ear away from your mouth earlier. It’s not proof of anything, but it is a delightfully obvious place to start. He has enough control over himself not to flinch when you first catch his right ear between your index finger and your thumb, but he still stiffens when the first thing you do is lick the very point.

The back of the point, and then the much more sensitive, slightly fleshy front. You dip your tongue into each crevice, each hollow, gradually approaching the canal, savouring each twitch and tremble Aymeric cannot suppress. You only mean to bite him once, but the stifled sound he makes in the back of his throat goads you to sink your teeth in again, this time on the top edge of his ear, just below the point.

By the time you pull away from his ear, his eyes are tightly shut, and it is clear that he is biting the inside of his lower lip.

“I’m not going to scold you the way you want,” you say, warmly, unable to keep your pride at your victory from seeping into your tone. “I much prefer to deal in truths, in this sort of game.” A lie, but not one he can disprove as of just yet. “I _shall_ scold you, Lord Commander, as you well deserve, for being a thorough, unrepentant lecher.”

That gets the response you were hoping for, Aymeric staring up at you with the sort of confusion you would almost believe to be real, if you could not see how tense his upper body still is. You wager that if you look to either side, you’ll see his tightly gripping the sheets, a discreet outlet for the insult he is pretending not to feel. “Rude as I was earlier,” he says, “I don’t believe I merit—”

“Be quiet,” you say, calmly, in a tone that brooks no disobedience. “You’re not here to defend yourself, my lord. You’re here to be punished. Are you not?”

Aymeric’s half-open mouth reluctantly closes. Like anyone who craves this sort of punishment, he does not wish to risk arguing himself out of it; still, he must be chafing at the thought of being put in the same category as leering older merchants and the sort of admirers that fondle your hand instead of simply pressing it. “I suppose I am,” he finally says, when you maintain your cool silence. “Yes.”

“You suppose.” You’re not much for the more… physical punishments that are usually part of this sort of game. It’s half out of laziness, and half because it’s not very satisfying when you’re always having to take care, always having to make sure not to hit too hard. You’ve only had two partners that truly relished the magnitude of what you could dish out, and in both cases, you went through enough hi-potions during each relationship that the local apothecary was starting to give you pitying looks and blatant hints to consider taking advantage of the Adventurers’ Guild’s new training courses.

You know it’s a bad idea to hit Aymeric at anything approaching full, non-lethal force. You scale down instead, to just under a third of that, and you telegraph the coming slap with a brief, barely-there caress of his cheek.

“Ah…”

The way his body jolts beneath yours, the exclamation that was half moan, half startled grunt… It is very difficult to refrain from slapping him again immediately. You settle for caressing his face, savouring the expectant way he flinches at your touch. “Are you here to be punished?”

“Yes.”

 _Such_ a fervent, prompt response. It deserves a reward. “Better,” you say, brushing the backs of your fingers against his cheek, all while shifting your weight and sliding your free hand into your drawers and dipping two fingers into your aching wetness. “Open up.”

Aymeric’s lips are already parted when you give that command; his heated gaze did not miss a single movement of yours. You don’t need to instruct him further when you finally put your slick fingers to his mouth, either. He licks you hungrily, his tongue spearing between your fingers, lapping up your juices as if they were some heavenly nectar.

“Good,” you say, to that, and are rewarded when he closes his eyes, overcome. “You can be even better for me, can you not?”

“Most certainly, yes.”

“Mmm. Well.”

(You cannot resist kissing Aymeric one more time. You don’t think anyone could, not with him looking up at them through his lashes like that, so very obviously eager to prove himself.)

You begin with simple, curt commands.

“Stand.”

Aymeric has some trouble with this since you refuse to move more than an inch, but he soon manages to crawl out from beneath your careless weight and stagger to his feet at your bedside.

“Strip.”

Mesmerizing grace on display, here. His undershirt falls to the floor in a soft, soundless ripple. He lists a bit as he bends to slide off his socks and lower, then step out of his breeches and underpants. The sight he makes as he straightens once again, naked, his short, thick cock standing high and proud before him in contrast to his meekly lowered head, is so distracting that you find yourself inching forward, your plan to let him stew already on the brink of being abandoned.

The only thing that serves to call you back to your slightly less fevered, reasoning self is the fact that your first step as you get off the bed is onto a discarded button. A button you immediately realize, with one downward look, is one of those Aymeric mistakenly set free from your jerkin earlier on.

Curious, isn’t it, that he can control his strength so well when it comes to his own clothes, even though he’s only a step from trembling with eagerness, his pointedly submissive frame thrumming with anticipation.

“Kneel,” you say, instead of mounting an indecent assault on all that pale, luscious skin. “Lift your head.”

You want him to see the slap coming.

No gentle telegraph this time. His eyes widen. A loud _smack_ cuts the tense silence between the two of you, one that nearly makes up for your mingled annoyance and humiliation.

“You really can hold your liquor,” you say, teasingly. “Oh, but I shouldn’t say that; it’s most likely adrenaline now, keeping you so steady.” But your hand is in his hair, a tight grip drawing his head back so that none of the chagrin in his expression can possibly escape you. “How much did you drink, again?”

Aymeric’s throat moves, his lips pressing into a line for a brief moment. “Do you wish for a count?” His throat works again. “I’m… I’m afraid I rather lost track.”

That deserves another slap. You smile at him. You touch his left cheek even as you let go his hair, your right hand stroking under his chin, wordlessly emphasizing that he’d better keep it tilted up just so.

“Hah.” You caught Aymeric on the ear a bit, since he flinched right as your hand came around. When he faces you again, chin still tilted up, his eyes are shining, and not just with unshed tears.

Bastard. Even as annoyed as you are at his sneaky little maneuver (it’s anyone’s guess if he really was drunk to begin with, or if he’s simply seizing the chance to take on some extra punishment for the imaginary sin of pretending drunkenness just because he can), you find yourself very interested in seeing what it’ll take to make those tears fall.

Gods, you want to get your own back. “Repeat after me,” you say. You know this sort of tactic is childish and unoriginal, but you cannot help yourself. “I, Aymeric de Borel…”

“I, Aymeric de Borel…”

“…am a lecherous…”

“—a—a lecherous…”

“…and thoroughly deceitful man.”

Aymeric gulped. “I… may I not…”

“No.” You seize hold of his chin. “Say it.”

“I… am a thoroughly deceitful man.”

“From the start, my dear.”

“I, Aymeric de Borel,” he says, hoarsely, “am a… a lecherous and, and thoroughly deceitful man.” He licks his lips. “Is that…?”

“Once more.”

This time, you lower your head so you can feel each of his halting words as brief bursts of heat against your left ear. “I, Aymeric de Borel, am a l-lecherous and deceitful… thoroughly deceitful man.”

“Good enough.” Your heated gaze is on his cock, and on the bead of precome oozing from its reddened tip. “Hands behind your back, now. Don’t even think of moving your hips.”

You love laying down such wicked restraints, leaving one path to expression while forbidding all others. You find it makes your partner’s only avenue of expression even more urgent.

Aymeric is no different. A sigh shudders out of him when you first put your hand around the thick base of his cock. He lets out a strangled moan when you stroke up and down, and tenses up when you rub your palm against the slick, bulbous head of his cock. You’re surprised to find, on closer examination, that his foreskin is intact, but you quickly set that issue aside; it’s a question for much later, if ever at all, considering what you know of the Elezen penchant for circumcision.

He smells suspiciously clean for someone with such a busy schedule, someone who appeared to be letting their hair down (so to speak) after a long, tiring day. He tastes like salt and skin and natural musk, and he groans as if your mouth on his cock is the best thing he’s ever felt.

You try to be careful with your tongue, especially when it comes to the ridged, sensitive underspine of his cock. It isn’t until you finally make your second mistake, the rough surface of your tongue rubbing him the wrong way, that you realize that quiet sob might mean he actually likes it.

By the time you pull away for good, Aymeric is trembling on his knees, his hands in tight-knuckled fists behind his back. It takes a moment for his blank gaze to properly focus on you. “Come on,” you say, as you get back off your knees. “Time to return the favour.”

It’s always difficult for you to keep your head clear at times like this. Aymeric’s tongue is longer than you expected. He is extremely eager to swallow down as much of your juices as possible. The sounds he makes—the muffled moans, the loud, messy slurps—are delightfully obscene, and it doesn’t take him long to learn that you prefer a slow, steady onslaught, and that you really quite like feeling his tongue rub inside you.

“Is it,” he says, panting against your cunt, “is it alright?”

“It’s…” You force his mouth back against you. Devil that he is, he keeps pausing just before you might come. “It’s lovely. You—fucking finish…”

You can’t keep from jerking against him as you orgasm, your breath ragged from the filthy stimulation of his tongue curling inside you. Were you a lot less shameless, you would be mortified to hear yourself, your greedy gasps, your groans, and worst of all, the high, shrill cries you reluctantly acknowledge are no better than ungainly squeals.

Once you’re limp, Aymeric pats clean his reddened mouth, licking his fingers, his hot gaze still pinned to you. “How else may I serve?” His slight hesitation before that final word makes you smirk. “It _was_ satisfactory?”

“Mmm,” you say, sighing. “Very.” Then add, when he wilts a little, his shoulders drooping, “you’ve a lovely mouth.”

“Oh?” He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands now, especially since you ordered him to pleasure you with only his mouth earlier on. His gaze lingers on your spread, bare thighs, and even more so on the thick curls that barely shield your glistening cunt. “I’m… I’m glad.”

“You should be,” you can’t help but say. “You did _so_ well.” You hook your left leg around his waist, forcing him to bend in over you again. “I can’t help but want to try your fingers. I don’t doubt that they’ll feel even better than your wicked tongue. Here. Give me these two.”

Aymeric’s hand trembles as you seize hold of it. It’s his left, and slightly slick; he’s likely been soothing himself without permission. You decide immediately that letting your tail rub against his leaking cock ‘by mistake’ will be more than enough punishment for now. You’re far more interested in stroking his index and middle fingers as you press them against your slick, hungry cunt.

“Yes.” Gods, but there’s a reason you love fucking the tall sorts. Just being fingered is often an experience. “Just that way. Deep as… ngh, deep as you can get.” You also love the feeling of being loomed over, being fiercely desired and fiercely filled, and yet in total control. “Twist them… work me open. I want more. I want… come here. Give me that lovely fucking mouth.”

He shudders on top of you, jolted by the sensation of your tail curling tight around his cock. You’re forced to drag him the last inch or so down to you by his hair, so you can bite his lower lip and plunder his gasping mouth. Your plan to make him work another finger inside you falls by the wayside; you’re far too interested in tasting him again, revelling in the salt-sweet taste of your juices on his lips as he slams those long, elegant fingers into your aching cunt.

Aymeric’s tongue drives hard into your mouth. It’s suddenly all too obvious that he was being somewhat reserved in his earlier kisses, reserved to the point that this feels overwhelming. It’s difficult to pull him off you without a judicious application of force: one hand in his hair, pulling harder than you have all night, and the other tight around his bare shoulder, your nails sinking in unmercifully.

At first, all that does is make him groan, the sound so low and deep that you can feel it all over. You pull harder, certain that he can take it, and that does the trick, making him arch away from you, panting, his extended tongue dripping saliva onto your heaving chest, staining the sweaty undershirt that is the second to last thing you have on.

Fevered, you reach up and rip open your undershirt, uncaring of the buttons you send flying. You have a sudden, desperate need to see his tongue in motion. You couldn’t see much while he was licking into your cunt, but now… “Lick my nipples,” you murmur. “Show me that tongue at work, properly. Work it in beneath—the cloth—”

His breaths are raspier when he’s like this. He does exactly as you ask, his tongue straining the thin material of your brassiere, darkening the pale cotton with saliva. It’s not enough stimulation to be truly satisfying since he can’t do more than ripple his tongue against your stiff, aching nipples, but the _sight_ of him… his head, no, his entire upper body bowed, subservient to your wicked purpose, his eyes shut tight, his ears trembling… it’s nearly too good for words.

“Alright,” you say, your tone low, your voice wavering more than you’d prefer. “Alright. Well done. No, no, leave it out for me. You deserve a reward.”

“Uhh… hgh!” The sounds he makes when you suckle his tongue only heighten your arousal. His desperation and greed are all too clear; not only does he thrust out his tongue at its full, monstrous length, his stiff, thickly ridged cock twitches strongly within the loose grip of your tail, spilling forth even more precome. “Hnn…”

“Mmph.” You give him one last slurp and nip at the receding tip of his tongue. You can’t wait to see what it is he wants to say. You’ve always enjoyed hearing that rich, smooth voice. You’re eager as anything to see what Aymeric will sound like when he begs.

He pants, his jaw working as he retracts his tongue behind his teeth. It is riveting, watching his face transform from definite inhumanity back into familiar, angular lines. “I hurt,” he rasps out. “I ache below, my la—my friend.”

“I’d be a poor, poor friend if I didn’t already know it,” you say, tightening your tail around his cock. Aymeric doesn’t gasp, but the way he flinches makes up for it. “Lie down for me, will you? I’ll see what I can do for you.”

You know stalling like this is cruel, but you cannot help yourself. His gaze is blank again, and he trembles at your gentle, insistent touch, and says not a word to hurry you on, to plead for more than your light, careless strokes and even lighter pinches. You’ve had Elezen men before; you assume the underspine and side ridges Aymeric’s cock possesses don’t change the fact that firm, sudden pressure at the base would be enough to make him come, and yet you hold back.

“I do believe I can manage this,” you say, musingly, as you settle in atop him, your dripping cunt just inches away from where his cock juts up from his groin. “I should be able to take most of you in.” An understatement; you knew his cock would fit right away, since it’s fairly short, for an Elezen. “Shall I begin to try?”

“Please.” That word is almost a grunt. “Please do.”

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” you say, as you take hold of him, pressing his fat cockhead against your pussy lips. “Come up into me, then. Use that strength.”

Aymeric frowns, but he obeys, his hips jerking up off the bed. His hands fist in the covers at his sides, and his cock thrusts into you halfway, only to slip out when he falters.

“You can’t be _that_ surprised that I’m so wet,” you purr. “Gods, that tongue of yours… shall we try again?”

He could complain. He could beg, plead for you to sit all the way down, to take him in that way. As he shuts his eyes and drives up into you again, you hardly know whether you want him to, whether you’d rather Aymeric begged you in that low, rasping tone. Keeping your cunt relaxed in this position is tricky; you don’t want him to come too soon, but he’s _thick_ , so delightfully thick that all you can think of is how it’ll feel to squeeze down on that ridged, solid weight until he gasps.

He cants his hips up differently on the next thrust, and the slight change in angle makes you cry out. It hurts. You need more. You bear down immediately, snarling, sinking your full weight onto him, uncaring of the fact that he’s ruined your plans once again. You need it too much, you need him to fill you all the way up.

“Yes,” you hear yourself gasp. “ _Yes_. There.” Or perhaps it’s more of a growl. His next thrust has nowhere to go, so he rolls his hips, grinding his cock in a sweet circle, stimulating your entrance so thoroughly that you can’t help but cry out again and again. “Just… it’s so right…”

“Is it?” Those words come out slurred, almost as if he is trying to say only one. “I’m… I’m doing well?”

“Yes.” You rear up a bit now and then, experimentally, trying to find the right rhythm so that you can meet him on each thrust. It’s impossible; he’s moving too erratically, using so much force that his hips slap against your thighs. He’d already have slipped out if the head of his cock wasn’t strangely swollen, the side ridges having got a lot more prominent. “ _Fuck_ yes.” You can’t help but scratch him; there’s no way to steady yourself with a grip on his waist without digging in with your nails. “Wait a bit, I think… ugh. I think I’d better give you your head. Get… get on top of me.”

“On top,” Aymeric repeats, dully. “That’s…”

You thought he’d sound more pleased. Or, well, sound even the least bit pleased or excited. You’d still be controlling him in that position, just not quite as much; that you’d be willing to cede him that much means you trust his judgement, something he should have found flattering. “Would you prefer to go on as we are? Do you not enjoy being on top?”

“It’s…” He gulps. “I’ve been drinking, you see, and when…”

 _Oh lord,_ you can’t help but think, _he’s not one of those idiots who obsess about how a proper man should always finish?_

“…when I engage in relations on such occasions, the excess liquid, it, it vents that way.”

You blink. “So,” you say, as calmly as you can, “you’re likely to piss on me?”

“ _No_.” Oh, he won’t even meet your eye now at all, and his left hand is making abortive movements, as if he wished he could reach up to cover his face with it without your noticing. “That’d be easier to deal with, I could simply—ahem. No. It would all be my seed, if a little thin.”

You don’t know how you manage not to gulp, not to signpost your sudden, acute interest. “This only happens while you’re on top?”

“After I’ve been drinking, yes.” His tone is a bit more confident now, bolstered, perhaps, by your own, matter-of-fact responses. “When I’m prone I can, ah, hold it in.”

“Do you want to hold it in, right now?”

Aymeric stares up at you, his lips parting, then closing, then parting again. “It would be…” He gulps. “If I didn’t, if I let loose… it would be rather messy.”

You lick your lips. “The bath, then,” you say, decisively. “Carry me.”

He takes that command literally. It take some few, sweaty, breathless moments for him to maneuver the two of you near the edge of the bed without ever shifting you off of his cock. Then and only then does he try to lift you up, one arm clutching you close to his waist even as he uses the other to lever himself up onto his feet.

His cock throbs and shifts inside you as he moves. You cannot help but nip at him again and again, purring relentlessly, triumph surging within you with each bloodied mark you leave on his chest, or just under his collarbone. You rather want to suck on his tongue, but refrain from asking; poor Aymeric is already so distracted, breathing heavily, stopping now and then to adjust himself within you, fighting the constant urge to stop and pin you down and ravage you.

The bathroom door slams against the poorly positioned sink. Panting, Aymeric shoves aside the partition that separates the old but well-kept brass bathtub from the toilet and sink. For a moment, all is fumbling chaos when he tries to lower you into the tub only to realize you’ll have to turn around on his cock to make it all work.

He grunts when you squeeze around his withdrawing cock, and the slick, ridged length bumps against you as he lets you down onto your feet. You feel intensely aware of your partial nakedness as you turn around. You can’t help but make a show of getting into the tub, your tail lifting jauntily as you strip off your undershirt and step in over the side. “Come along.”

Aymeric ducks his head, but climbs in as well, his heavy breaths barely audible over the loud shifts and creaks given off by the bathtub. “This… I’m not sure how this’ll work.”

Even as he says that, he moves in close behind you as you drop to your hands and knees. Thankfully, the tub is wide enough that he can splay his knees wider than yours and still have enough leverage to thrust. He shudders as you guide his cock back into your cunt, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. With him this close, crouching over you, the tub no longer feels as cavernous as it always has. You’re trapped, crowded, cornered.

Tense as you are, Aymeric is even more so. He trembles when you encourage him to fondle you, his fingers surprisingly clumsy as he unties and discards your brassiere. His hands are large and hot, his callouses a delicious contrast against the skin of your breasts. He squeezes you there, hard enough that you tighten around him down below. His low, choked groan is the last straw.

You squeeze around him once again. He gulps, rocking forward, clearly hesitant to do more. Another moment passes just like that, with the two of you rocking together unevenly. “Come on,” you say, your voice a breathless, wavering snarl. “Come on, then.” You feel annoyingly unbalanced without both of your hands on the tub floor, but it’s worth it feeling him twitch inside you when you reach back to cup his tight, flexing arse. “Come on. Fuck me.”

“I’ll… it, it might…” Aymeric lets out a low groan when you rock back onto him. “I might extend.” Rare, for Elezen, but not unheard of. “Oh, gods, I can feel it. I shouldn’t have—I was a fool to drink so.”

You can feel it too, the unnatural ripple running through his thick cock. You squeeze down on him instinctively, and are rewarded by a marked thickening of of the head, a bulge big enough that you know it’ll stretch you on its way out. Aymeric groans again, and starts pounding into you, and where it once would simply have satisfied you, it now feels—

“Sorry,” he sobs. “I can’t—”

“It’s all right,” you rasp. You’ve never been so full. The friction of his vicious thrusts is fading in favour of a strange, slithering feeling, as if more and more of his rippling cock is being forced inside you. Squeezing down on that monstrosity sends you shuddering into orgasm.

Aymeric gasps, his breath heavy and hot above your head. Drops of his saliva spatter down onto your shoulder, something you dimly note must be happening because his tongue is out again. And then all that you are is your aching, clenching cunt, which is being assaulted deep within by powerful spurts of come.

“You liar,” you somehow manage to say, in a voice that is somewhere between a gasp and a helpless moan. “It’s—ngh!” It feels _thick_.

“Hnah,” is Aymeric’s sole intelligible response. He’s still thrusting slowly, rolling his hips against yours. You reach back between your thighs with a shaking hand, wanting leverage, only to find that he is flush against you. Elezen don’t have external sacs; you can do nothing but rake your nails along the inside of his thighs, which only makes him shudder with pleasure.

Another spurt hits, and you lose a moment to the pleasure-pain of it impacting too deep. If you’d been a bit more prepared… if you’d known how much he’d expand… you force yourself to take deep, measured breaths, to relax, to ease open your cervix so all that come has somewhere to go. You’ve done this before, midway through a really hazy bender of a weekend in Limsa, revelling in the ability to take in and expel enough Roegadyn come to fill a couple sturdy buckets. You can do it again. You have to.

Aymeric grunts, a sound you mostly feel as warmth atop your head. Then he starts to pull back, both hands on your writhing hips, the motion slow and steady. At first, you think he’s only preparing to start fucking into you, but then he circles his hips and pulls back again, and suddenly there’s so much sweet, terrifying pressure within your cunt that you’re coming, practically yowling.

Some of his come splashes out, drenching your inner thighs. You’ve no idea how that works—you’re so full, so fucking _full_ , you can’t imagine how there’s even space for his come to spill—fuck, he’s starting again, rocking back—“More,” you growl. “ _More_.”

It—he—complies. There’s an obscene slosh as a result, and another hard spurt. You don’t think you can bear coming again, but you find yourself arching back anyway. “More,” you whine. Your arms are stretched behind you, your fingernails digging into Aymeric’s lean muscled thighs. You refuse to let him get away. “Oh. Oh fuck. _Fuck_.”

It feels like an age before he bends in over you again. “Yes,” he pants. “As you command.”

Your belly is starting to swell a little. “Look,” you sob, after another slippery gush. “Look what you’ve done. Look at me.”

“I’m—”

“Glorious,” you snap out. The last thing you want is his apology. His cock is no longer spurting very strongly; it’s almost soothing. And you can feel the pressure within your packed, sopping cunt easing with every careful twist of his hips. “Glorious. Understand?”

Aymeric lets out a loud, shuddering breath, but says nothing. You switch your left hand from grasping his thigh to stroking his bloodied skin, squeezing it suggestively.

“You,” you murmur, “were made for this. And made so fucking well.” You have to brace yourself for a moment, for the right point between the splash of his come trickling out of you and another of his backwards thrusts. You squeeze down then, causing him to tense behind you, then groan as another spill of come from your pussy drenches the two of you.

He wasn’t exaggerating when he said it would be messy. There’s already a layer of surprisingly thin, yellowish come coating the floor of the tub. Your knees ache, and his cock doesn’t feel like it’s anywhere near its regular size yet.

You’re still rather pleased with yourself. “Just a bit more,” you mutter, stroking his inner thigh. “Just a bit.”

* * *

By the time the two of you can finally fully separate, your belly is swollen enough that you could pass for pregnant, and Aymeric is slumped beside you, his entire lower body sticky enough that anyone would think it was he who had been pumped full of come.

“Bloody alcohol,” he says, his words both muffled and oddly ringing; his mouth must be close to the side of the tub. “Never again.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” you purr, rubbing your head against his sweaty side. “ _I_ liked it. Though perhaps…”

“Let me guess,” he says, wryly, “you’d prefer that next time, I limit the number of drinks. Two mugs of beer, rather than four.”

“I wouldn’t be that hasty,” you say. “Three? Or—ooh, I forgot you also had a glass or two of spirits. So four would be fine.”

“It isn’t just the amount,” Aymeric says, bluntly. “It’s the strength of the drink, as well.”

“Oh?” You slide an arm around his waist. “What else affects it?”

“Sometimes,” he says, in a deliberately bland tone, “ejaculating while prone can, ah, temper the reaction.”

“So you mean I could have had you on your back first?” I say, blinking hard. “Then why’d you—”

“It doesn’t always work.”

“Ohhhh. Right.”

“Though I’m sure… I’d suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try it with you once. As well as some other things.”

You can’t help but grin, hearing that. “No,” you say. “No, it wouldn’t hurt at all.”


End file.
